


Words on Walls

by mrvvrench



Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: Ableism, Guns, M/M, Violence, another dude dies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 03:56:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1884414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrvvrench/pseuds/mrvvrench
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wrench has long given up on people and communication, until he meets Numbers. Through many various ways, Wrench will learn what it's like to have your walls torn down, and exactly how much work and worth communication can be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words on Walls

**Author's Note:**

> I received a headcanon a couple weeks back that had two parts. I decided to build a world around it, as opposed to just writing it head on, so this fic may have more than two chapters, but probably no more than three or four. So I'm going to set it at three for now, but it could extend. Either way this is part one (vaguely) for anon. 
> 
>  
> 
> [Exact wording of the first half of the prompt. (as you can see I'm not following it very clearly just yet, but I'll get there.) ](http://sherlockcaptor.tumblr.com/post/90557508719/ive-got-an-unsolicited-wrenchers-headcanon-for-you)
> 
>  
> 
> I want to post this up as multi chapter, because I've got so many other things I'm working on that this may not update until I get something else posted, but I didn't want the anon to have to wait any longer. Poor anon. I'm sorry it took so long. I'm working, I promise.
> 
> I have more Wrenchers on the way. The more headcanons and prompts, the more I'll write.

The world had always been impressively small, yet so empty and vast for Mr. Wrench. Trying to communicate was only one of many difficulties he’d learned about being deaf. Having to write down every little thing he wanted to say was tedious, so often times he found himself not saying much at all. It was easier not to feel the need to add his input into conversations or a decision; he only wrote the things that were essential or a necessity. He’d long stopped trying to communicate with most, if not all, people. Their snide comments when they thought he wasn’t looking was enough to stop him dead in his tracks. It was as if they’d forgotten their time around him and the fact that he could read lips.

They seemed to have put out of their mind that the hit man was always watching; observing. Wrench took in all he could and filed it away. Little pieces of information some would find completely irrelevant were of absolute importance to Wrench. When someone grows up deaf, they need to learn how to decipher body language far more than anyone who could hear. And above all, how to read people and a situation. Lacking the sense of hearing meant their eyes needed to take in more than anyone else’s.

He caught all those rude, little comments the other hit men said. He sawthe whispered jokes that people would make to each other in a restaurant as if his being deaf was an absolute _riot._ Everything piled on; cruel jokes, snarky remarks, odd glances, and worst of all, people mouthing words to him so painfully slow as if he was stupid. How many jaws had he nearly broken over people treating him like an idiot, or worse, a child? Being deaf to Wrench was merely a disadvantage, but everyone else around him made it out to be a huge disability that he would never overcome; as if he hadn’t already. He hadn’t even realized how much he was beginning to accept it as just that.

Overtime it all began to seem so useless. Communication became insurmountably meaningless. He found less reason to want to communicate as people and time wore his patience thin. What good did people really have to say anyway?

Wrench accepted it like that; tried to find a way into content. Nearly found it, when a voice he couldn’t hear came along. A voice that would one day discover a way to open locked doors and tear down the many steel walls that Wrench had built around himself with unskilled hands.

Numbers hands were the first key. They did everything in their ability to bridge a tremendous, cavernous gap. And for what? Wrench couldn’t figure it out. To get to know him better? Why would anyone want to get to know him? He was aggressive, abrasive, and _disabled_.

That didn’t stop Numbers from trying every day. Learning new signs and how to place them in a sentence correctly, reading random books that weren’t directly applied to his learning of the ASL, but rather just history and knowledge. Doing everything he could to make sure that he understood even the smallest bit of deaf history. He absorbed it, utilized it, and practiced everything, every day.

Every time Numbers learned a new phrase or sentence, the pride would glow from his face when he was finally able to use it in conversation. It burned. It made Wrench feel like a thousand lighters were being pressed into his skin. Why was he working so hard? For what?

It was a question that weighed heavily on his mind at all times of the day. Wrench had learned quite a bit about his partner, who would discuss himself or things he liked to utilize the language he was learning. Wrench learned that his favorite color was blue, but grey might be a close second. He learned he loved house plants, but couldn’t keep them alive. He preferred cats, grew up with a sister, lost his family in a way he wasn’t ready to talk about, and he hated the cold. Wrench learned this last one less through sign language, but more from the fact the man was always shivering if it was anywhere below 75 degrees in a building or outside. He also wore warmer clothes, when others were excited to peel off layers.

Still Wrench kept most of himself hidden. He complied with Numbers eagerness to learn with a bit of apprehension. He knew it would make their job easier, but it still nagged at him. Motives. What could they possibly be? Was it just that they were stuck together until one of them made a run for it or was killed?

Nonetheless, Wrench kept teaching, and Numbers kept learning. They would meet up in the library or a café for a couple of hours every other day or so, when they weren’t on a mission. Numbers would rapid fire sign the things he’d learned so he wouldn’t forget, while Wrench didn’t necessarily bother to keep up the entire time. If he saw something wrong, he’d know. At least the guy’s facial expressions were getting a bit better and his hands seemed less stiff. Sometimes Wrench would find himself staring at the guy’s hands. They were kind of pretty for men’s hands; strong, yet seemingly delicate.

It always brought on that burning, painful sensation that gripped his entire being and made him ask _why, why, why?_ It wasn’t that it didn’t occur to him to be grateful that Numbers was actually trying unlike everyone else up until this point, he truly was grateful when he was being honest with himself. And Numbers wasn’t just learning to make their jobs easier, but because he seemed genuinely interested in doing it. But _why_? The feeling would gnaw at him, though his face remained stoic, while watching the other man work fruitlessly for something Wrench couldn’t grasp. Even if he could, where would he begin to understand?

Wrench wouldn’t learn much of that concept until several hits later.

The two hit men were together on a particularly stressful mission for nearly two weeks. It was a rollercoaster ride of adrenaline and stress practically the entire time. Their target kept giving them the slip despite trying to take as many precautions as possible. They’d sustained several minor injuries in a meager amount of time. Even so, they continued to play through the pain and were finally able to track down the snakey bastard. The chase was long and difficult and just as Wrench expected, it was too easy when they’d finally caught up to him.

The younger hit man was completely aware of the change in the hunt. Numbers, on the other hand, was eager to get this done. He didn’t know exactly how to explain it, but Wrench could _feel_ it. He tried his hardest to warn Numbers, but the smaller hit man just charged in after the target. Wrench had learned that about Numbers more than anything else; he was impulsive to a fault.

He hung back for a moment, outside of the crumbling house Numbers had ran into. Wrench knew he should have followed him in for backup support, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew there was an ambush in the dilapidated building, more than likely.

Wrench didn’t want to die at the hands of some tricky rat. He hoped his intuition was wrong and Numbers was putting a bullet in their target’s brain right now. The hit man waited for the smaller man to reemerge, watching every which way from the cover of some trees. But Numbers didn’t come back out.  

Wrench had two choices. Follow in after Numbers and get caught in the trap he was now sure Numbers was stuck in. Or he could live. He could leave now, take a demotion. Fargo would have someone else sent out after this guy. But when he thought about Numbers in there, getting shot and dumped off somewhere… His body shivered from the rage that licked hot at his insides.

He couldn’t possibly let him die. Not after all his hard work. After all that he had done for Wrench up until this point; no. He wasn’t going to let Numbers die.

Wrench proceeded with far more caution into the ramshackle house, trying his best to be quiet without having a gauge to go by. Two rooms into the abandoned, gutted home, he found Numbers tied to a chair. The target’s back was to Wrench. He was talking, he thought, because neither men noticed Wrench creeping along the wall and out of sight. The bound hit man’s eyes were glued onto the man in front of him.  

Wrench had an advantageous view at this new angle, while keeping himself mostly hidden. Lips moved on the target’s age-worn face, but he couldn’t really make out what he was saying. He wished Numbers’ mouth wasn’t duct taped shut so he could get a better idea of what was going on.

In an instant – Wrench hardly had a moment to think – he saw the greasy, dirty man raise his arm. The gun in his hand was cocked and ready to fire. It was aimed to lodge a bullet between Numbers’ eyes. That’s when Wrench felt a new anger. A different form than what he’d felt for years began to stir behind his walls. Without a second thought, with his aim already professionally trained on the target, Wrench pulled the trigger. Brain and skull and blood splattered onto Numbers, as the poor hit man flinched and shook in his seat against the restraints.  

Wrench doubted Numbers was able to extract the information from him that they’d needed. But it didn’t matter. They were probably safe now. For the moment. Fingers quickly stripped the tape from the smaller hit man’s mouth; he felt a little guilty at the wince Numbers made from several of his beard hairs being yanked out. Carefully, Wrench cut the bonds off of Numbers’ wrists, and let him have the knife to do his ankles. Aside from a quick _thank you_ and a _grab his legs_ , the two didn’t exchange any communication. Together they dragged the body back to the car and found a discreet place to dump it.

Back at the motel, Numbers dressed his wounds while trying to squash down the discomfort of the silence. Normally it didn’t bother him, much. But now he felt like he’d fucked up. For a moment, he was sure Wrench wouldn’t come after him. For a moment, he thought he was going to die. But somehow, Wrench went against all that was taught to them in their line of work. And for _what?_ For the past eight months, Wrench had done nothing but half-willingly oblige Numbers’ desire to learn sign language. He rarely showed any emotion towards or interest in Numbers. He just taught and observed.

 _Why did you save me?_ Numbers signed hesitantly.

Wrench just glared at him, with the same look he always had.

 _It’s my job._ He signed back, shrugging a shoulder as he sat down on the edge of his own bed.

 **No it isn’t,** Numbers thought to himself, but dropped it. It was clear he wasn’t going to get any answers. At least not right now, while they were both still rattled and Numbers was smearing antibacterial cream all over the cuts on his arm from the knife that made him drop his gun when he was taken by surprise.

The back of his head hurt from where he’d been pistol whipped, and he was more than ready for the extra strength Tylenol to kick in any moment. This whole situation with Wrench was only making his headache worse.

_Why do you even bother?_

At first Numbers thought he’d misunderstood a sign or something. But when he made this sign for _repeat_ Wrench signed again, more aggressively.

_Why do you even bother with me? Learning sign language and being stupidly fucking nice? I don’t get it. What do you want from me?_

Numbers stared at him. Confusion, anger, frustration, inability… it all mixed and mingled in his mind. Confusion over his own feelings. Anger that Wrench was so stubborn and unyielding. Frustration over his own inability to convey the things that were building inside of him.

While Wrench tried so desperately to cling to his walls, constantly rebuilding them, Numbers was right behind, desperately trying to build a bridge. Why couldn’t Wrench see that? Why couldn’t he, himself, see that? And what was it all for?

For him; them.

 _I don’t want anything from you._ Numbers signed in all honesty. He covered his arm with his sleeve and looked away for a brief moment. Wrench glared even more harshly than normal, unable to believe that others could possibly lack ulterior motives.

 _I want us to be equals. I want to be friends. I want **you** to be my **partner** , _he signs slowly, reaching for each word.

Wrench’s heart hammered on as his mind reels and boggles over Numbers’ statement. Why would anyone want to be his friend or his partner? Why would anyone willingly choose closed off, rude, aggressive, defective him over literally anyone else?

_Why?_

_What do you mean why?_ Numbers signed furiously. _You’re willing to take time out of your day to teach a thirty-four year old man a language. You don’t interrupt me and you’re never harsh when I make mistakes._ Numbers scrunched up his face as he looked away again. This was all kinds of embarrassing. He felt awkward discussing his emotions so openly with the ice block of a hit man. He knew Wrench had feelings; but he was never sure what they really were. _I admire your skill at this job. You do it better than everyone else, despite_ he paused, trying to recall the forgotten word he wanted.

Wrench misunderstood.

 _Despite being disabled?_ he signed for him; his glare grew absolutely feral. Of course. Numbers saw him exactly the way everyone else did. What had it all been for? **Pity.** That’s what. Hefelt **bad** the poor deaf guy had to stumble through life. The lonely, defective kid needed a friend.

 _No!_ Numbers rose to his feet and despite his aching head and arm and the alarm bells in his brain screaming at him, he slapped Wrench’s hands down. He received a blow to the jaw that knocked him clean to the ground. Red blossomed when he rose back to his feet. Blood ran down his chin from the split lip he’d been given. Metallic and rich, the taste filled his mouth as he subconsciously licked at the new wound.

 _Fuck you, that hurt,_ he signed. He regretted it instantly when Wrench cocked back his fist and slammed it into Numbers’ face again. It took him a moment longer to stand back up this time; the small hit man doesn’t know how much more abuse his body can take today. With the back of his wrist, he wiped at the blood now pouring from his lip. He spat blood on the floor and ducked away quickly from another blow, receiving it sharply in his shoulder instead.

 _“STOP!”_ he yelled and signed at the same time. _Wait, man! Just let me fucking…_ he put his arms up defensively shielding his face. If Wrench was going to beat him to a pulp, until he was satisfied, Numbers couldn’t stop him. He **wouldn’t** stop him. Hell, maybe it’d make him feel better and Numbers might get a chance to tell him what he wanted him to know, if he remained conscious.

But Wrench finally stopped his assault. Strong hands pull the arms away from Numbers’ face with surprising gentleness. The giant hit man held up his hands in a sign of surrender. Numbers wasn’t sure, but he thought he could see a bit of sincere sorrow flash in his green eyes. It’s absolutely pathetic and Numbers can’t help the forgiveness he’s not usually so easy to give.

 _Please,_ Numbers rubs his chest with his palm. _It sucks that you can’t hear, man. But I don’t feel sorry for you._ He watches Wrench eye him warily. _And I don’t think you’re disabled. You’re ten times better than anyone else. You knew there was a trap and you snuck into a house and killed that guy without hearing a single thing. I can’t even do that most of the time,_ he admitted sheepishly. He felt awkward, but he couldn’t give in to it now. _You know so much more than everyone else. You’re seriously amazing, man, and you don’t give up. You’re only disabled if you let yourself be disabled by it._

Numbers felt exposed when he finally dropped his hands. He felt raw and abused and his face screamed in agony.

Wrench stared at the man in front of him. The man that just took a beating from two different people today. And he did it all for him? And _what for?_ The words _friend_ and _partner_ and _amazing_ rose to the surface of his mind and began to erase some of the words he’d used to describe himself for so long. He was no longer _defective,_ he was **_amazing._** He wasn’t abrasive, he had a **_partner_**. He was no longer _lonely_ , he had a **_friend_** _._

And just like that, the first of many walls broke and crumbled down.


End file.
